Snap Decision

by Jami Davenport

  The cat stalked off, irritated about God knew what.

  It was time that cat learned this wasn’t his house. Grabbing his leather jacket slung over the back of the couch, Tyler dropped the coat over the feline, wrapping it around the little body.

  All hell broke loose. The thing fought like a cougar, not an ordinary house cat. Its little legs churned like pistons, claws ripping his coat to shreds. Its body twisted inside the coat as it yowled.

  Ty would’ve preferred taking his chances in a cage with a UFC champion. He held on for all he was worth, hurried to the door, opened it far enough to deposit the rabid, coat-wrapped cat on the porch, and slammed it shut. Panting for breath, he leaned against the door.

  Sacrificing a designer leather jacket was a small price to pay for not being maimed for life.

  He’d won this battle.

  * * * * *

  Lavender stretched in her bed and opened her eyes a crack. Sun poured through the window, a rare sight compared to the rain of the past few weeks.

  As she cuddled under the covers for a few more minutes of sleep, her mind drifted to the jock next door. She cringed as she recalled handing him her phone number.

  She’d been dropped into a dilemma of her own making—hers and Art’s. Damned if she did, and damned if she didn’t. She needed Tyler to leave before the ninety days ended. Then the brothers and she could inherit and follow through on Art’s dreams. Yet, if he did forfeit, she doubted they could afford to keep the place in its present state, let alone fix it up.

  Tyler could afford to do that, but he’d as good as said he wouldn’t. Unless she found a way to persuade him. Lavender stopped that thought right there.

  She might have a weakness for gorgeous bad boys, but her peace of mind revolved around not indulging her libido. Besides, her various relationships with athletes over the years never led to anything but heartache.

  Lavender sighed. Just wait until her mother got wind of her new neighbor.

  Her mother didn’t exactly like jocks and would be worried for her daughter when she found out one lived next door. And the worst kind—a football player. Not just any football player, but one involved in a recent scandal hours after winning it all.

  Mom would probably mount a community protest. At the least, she’d slap a chastity belt on her wild-at-times daughter, while her stepfather stood guard with a shotgun. Lavender chuckled at the picture that presented. Okay, probably not that extreme.

  Not to worry, Mom. As badly as she wanted to save the mansion, she wouldn’t go that far.

  Then she heard it.

  The cat. Yowling somewhere outside. His bitching came through loud and clear, and he was pissed.

  All winter the finicky cat next door bitched day and night about the quality of his living arrangements, demanding his house cat status back. In the short time Tyler Harris had lived in the old mansion, he’d ignored the animal, which was why she’d finally intervened on the cat’s behalf yesterday.

  Harris behaved exactly as she’d expected the arrogant jock to behave. Lucky her. Why couldn’t he have been a marine biologist or an artist, even a plumber? But a football player? Damn. What a subversive twist of fate. She’d had enough of jocks to last a lifetime, especially one who didn’t take his responsibilities seriously.

  He’d been around long enough to shoulder his responsibilities, namely the animal he’d inherited.

  After pulling on her clothes, she walked outside. She didn’t see the cat anywhere and headed to her neighbor’s. The gated estate didn’t exactly invite strangers, but she ignored the No Trespassing sign like always and slid through a gap in their shared fence line. Once on the other side, she traipsed across the scruffy lawn overrun with weeds. The three-story craftsman mansion dominated its surroundings; even the old madronas and cedars flanking it seemed small by comparison. Despite its need of a good coat of paint, among other repairs, passersby on the nearby country road always slowed to stare at the impressive structure, the largest of three such structures on this particular county road, Old Mansion Lane. As told by island historians, three good friends and Seattle business partners each built mansions side by side on Madrona Island back in the early 1900s as escapes from the pressures of city life.

  Grooming himself on a bench swing under the wraparound porch sat the fat orange tabby cat. As soon as he saw her, he launched into another litany of complaints. Lavender shook her head and rolled her eyes. The cat had attitude. He was a perfect match for the infamous quarterback living behind these walls.

  The feline bitched in earnest, bombarding her with his grievances

  “Damn, you’re a drama queen. Well, hang in there, buddy. Lavender’s gonna fix everything.”

  The cat smirked, happy to have his way.

  If she expected any peace, she’d need to have another confrontation with Tyler Harris.

  Bracing herself, she brought up her hand to rap on the door.

  * * * * *

  Tyler hesitated and stared at the door. The cat’s yowling had stopped, which made him suspicious. Surely, the animal was plotting its next move. He frowned and pressed his ear against the solid wood door and listened. Nothing. Not a sound.

  The little shit probably ran over to complain to the neighbor. Next thing he knew, she’d be calling animal control, and it’d be all over the internet and ESPN. He didn’t give a damn what the press said about him in most cases, but he didn’t abuse women or animals, nor did he drive drunk or do drugs. Ever. End of story.

  To keep the gossip mags at bay, Tyler yanked open the door at the exact time purple lady raised her hand to knock. Instead, she rapped on his chest. A grin spread across his face as he stared down at her fist frozen in mid-knock on his breastbone. He grabbed her hand in case she decided to punch him in the nuts or something. His eyes locked with her startling brown ones. Unruly red hair framed her pale face with its sprinkling of freckles. His fingers itched to explore the auburn mass of curls.

  Tyler gripped her hand tighter. Her palm felt warm against his. His long fingers wrapped around her small hand, engulfing it, making it look fragile. An overwhelming urge to lift her hand to his lips and kiss it like a chivalrous gentleman of old passed through him. As if she read his mind, she wrenched her hand away.

  He braced for round two with his diminutive neighbor with the big attitude.

  “Your cat wants in.” Lavender got all huffy and indignant, like she was the cat’s protector or something.

  “I kicked him out.”

  “Why? Can’t you see how traumatized he is?”

  “He’s traumatized?” Tyler glanced at the fat tabby grooming himself on the porch swing. He held up his bandaged hand.

  She snorted and ignored his injuries. “You need to be a more responsible pet owner.”

  “Since when are you my conscience?”

  “Someone needs to be. Take care of your cat, or I’ll be your worst nightmare.”

  “You already are.” He chuckled, goading her for the pure devilment of it.

  “Don’t you forget it, jock boy. Why don’t you go back to the city where you belong?”

  “What? And miss the company of a sweet thing such as yourself? Not on your life.”

  Turning, she stomped off. Tyler stood in the doorway and watched her go. They might not be the best of friends, but damn, she turned him on when she got mad like that.

  The cat stalked past him, fucking tail stuck straight up, and interrupted his daydream of Lavender in the buff. The orange shit tossed a screw-you look over one furry orange shoulder and disappeared into the living room. Tyler followed him, knowing exactly what he’d discover.

  In front of the massive stone and marble fireplace, the cat stretched out on a mission-style leather couch, one of the mansion’s original pieces of furniture. It’d survived over one hundred years.

  Tyler hoped like hell it survived an ordinary house cat with the attitude of a cougar.

  Chapter 6—Third-Down Conversion

  Days later, Tyler s
tood on the sagging back porch of his piece-of-shit mansion and surveyed his so-not-piece-of-shit surroundings. The mansion might need work, but the view sure as hell didn’t. Despite his intention to sell the property at the end of his ninety-day exile, a grudging appreciation of the raw beauty wound its way past his defenses.

  A pinprick of guilt regarding the fate of the mansion unearthed his sense of family loyalty. He closed his eyes and waited for a moment of clarity, a sign as to the direction to take, but the answer eluded him.

  Taking a gulp of oxygen, he opened his eyes and leaned on the porch railing. Tall cedars crowded the edge of the weed-infested lawn, while madronas clung to the bank and leaned precariously over the water of Outlaw Bay. On the horizon, clouds gathered and signaled another impending storm. Water lapped at the sand on the small beach and eroded a portion of his restlessness. The old dock creaked as the wake of a powerboat rocked it. In the distance, a small sailboat tacked back and forth taking advantage of the stiff breeze in Hazard Channel, named not just for the rocks below the water’s surface but for the many smugglers and criminals who’d plied the waters over the past century. A smile crept across his face as he imagined his ancestors bootlegging whiskey to the mainland. Obviously, he’d inherited their wild streak.

  It was hard to believe the Super Bowl had ended only five weeks ago. For a couple of agonizing weeks after the game, the sports world buzzed with rumors about Tyler quitting football, his alleged drug and alcohol problems, and his bad attitude. Hiding out on the island might be making him stir-crazy, but it kept him out of the press’s sights. The rumors had died down to a whisper here and there as the fickle press moved on to the next story. He’d become yesterday’s news—which for once was fine with him—until the next round of rumors started circulating.

  A small smile tickled the corners of his mouth as an uninvited peace soaked into his bones. He shook it off in an attempt to resist the call of the islands. He wouldn’t answer their siren song. He needed stimulation, the constant excitement and activity only a city provided.

  He’d been born and raised in the country on a ranch, done some junior rodeo, mucked stalls, bucked way too much hay, and, truth be told, loved every minute of it. Buried deep, a country boy lurked under his city-boy façade, another contradiction in a life of contradictions.

  Tyler turned away from the beauty. Walking inside, he ambled down the hallway into the den with its dark wood and massive stone fireplace. A hunk of old-growth cedar served as the mantel. Part of Tyler admired the incredible craftsmanship of the old mansion, how it’d withstood the test of time. Unlike the fickleness of being a football star one day, a goat the next. Another part of him compared the place to prison.

  The cat—now christened Cougar in honor of his attitude and Tyler’s former college team—sprawled in front of the fireplace and waited for Ty to build a fire. Not that Tyler liked the cat, not at all, but they tolerated each other’s presence after the leather coat debacle.

  “You’re a heat slut, Coug. Know that?”

  Cougar blinked at him and stretched his long feline body. Standing, the cat rubbed against Tyler’s legs and made a purr-ow sound only cats could make. Tyler bent and picked up the tabby, cradling him in his arms.

  Placing Coug on the couch, he sat at the antique rolltop desk and checked out the latest issue of a gossip mag he’d picked up at the grocery store. His gaze snapped to a picture of a familiar blonde on the arm of a tall man, both dressed for a Hollywood party. His body tensed. Cass. He’d assumed she’d be somewhere recovering from the breakup, like he’d assumed a lot of things.

  Such as assuming his invincible father would be around forever. After all, he’d flown rescue helicopters in war zones and survived. He’d assumed Ryan would survive by some miracle. Then Art Harris died, the great uncle he’d only gotten to know six short months ago.

  He’d never really known why Art had reached out to him. His uncle never really said, and Tyler hadn’t asked, though the answer seemed obvious. No one wanted to die alone. Everyone deserved to die surrounded by friends and family.

  Nothing made sense anymore. His brash, self-absorbed costume didn’t fit well. His love of the game slipped away to be replaced by apathy. Football had been his obsessive focus for so long, quitting didn’t seem like a viable option. Tyler Harris without football didn’t exist. He had no identity unless he held a pigskin in his hands, and right now he didn’t even have that.

  All this introspection didn’t sit well with him.

  He needed human company, socialization, maybe a little admiration from the locals, anything to make him feel worthy. He’d hidden out on this estate for almost a month. Plenty long enough. An opinionated, demanding cat had been his only company with the exception of a few trips to town for milk, beer, pizza, and cat food. Plus, he was damn tired of eating his cooking, which exclusively revolved around an ancient microwave.

  A few glimpses of Lavender weren’t enough to satisfy his cravings for human interaction. Though those few glimpses kept him going. Like a voyeur, he craned his neck for any sign of her curvy body and gorgeous face. He even knew her routine. She’d stride out to her makeshift greenhouse every morning and water her plants. One good gust of wind and the shack would be leveled. He snorted. Hell, her dinky little house wasn’t much better. It looked like he felt after a weekend drunk in college.

  His sex-deprived brain indulged in various carnal fantasies, each one more deviant than the last, and every one involving the sassy little redhead next door who brought out the worst in him. Tell that to his dick. It didn’t care, it just wanted what it wanted.

  But a man couldn’t live on fantasies alone. Being as much a social animal as he was an asshole, he sought out attention and conversation. When dusk set in, he headed to Sunset Harbor, the largest town on Madrona Island. Large being a relative term. Time to check out the local women and down a few brews.

  Tyler parked his big-ass truck on the main street in Sunset Harbor and stepped out. The sleepy little town of a thousand consisted of a few blocks of shops, stores, and restaurants. He paused, tipped back his black Stetson, and surveyed the serenity and beauty around him for the second time today. The storm gave way to an unusually clear night. Stars shone in the sky, more brilliant because of the lack of city lights. A few blocks away and lit up like a cruise ship, a Washington State ferry motored away from the ferry landing bound for the mainland.

  Tyler ran a hand over his face and steeled himself against the allure of the island. Turning his back on the view, he walked a half block and hesitated in front of the veterans club he’d noticed earlier, the same one on the business card Lavender had shoved in his pocket. He thumbed through his wallet for his national membership card, courtesy of his father’s service in the military. Finding it, he walked to the door.

  He might as well hang with the locals since he was one, at least for now. After all, his family had over a century of history on this island, and for now he owned property here.

  Tyler pushed through the door and drew the stares of every bar patron. He signed the guest book and listed his membership number.

  Hadn’t these people ever seen a tall cowboy before? Casting one last glance around the room, Tyler took a seat at the long bar. He shook his head, wondering what the hell had gotten into him. He’d come to town for company, though now that he was here, he wanted to be left alone. On any other day in any other place, he’d be sitting at a table surrounded by adoring fans and playing to his audience like the attention slut he was. His gaze swept across the room, past the table of locals speaking in low tones. He caught the words asshole, selfish, drunk, quitter, and entitled jerk. Shrugging, he turned away. He’d charm their asses off later if the mood struck him. Right now, he didn’t want to talk football with anyone.

  He did a double take at the wall of windows looking out over some of the best views on the islands. Holy shit. Nestled on a hillside, the bar’ had an expansive view that took in the ferry landing and neighboring islands. This pl
ace would be worth a fortune in the current market just for that view.

  His sharply honed womanizing eyes targeted the miniscule woman making a drink behind the counter, her back to him. To call her sexy wouldn’t do her justice. Unabashedly, he ogled her backside. Her compact, curvy body differed from the tall, emaciated blondes he normally dated. Her auburn hair fell in a curly mass across her shoulders and down her back. Her tight jeans hugged her round ass, just the right size to fit in his big palms.

  Ty grinned. He could use a little island magic.

  She barely cast a glance in his direction as she put glasses away. “What can I getcha?”

  “How about you?”

  She turned, and their gazes collided with the impact of a head-on collision. His mouth fell open. The woman rendered him speechless, and that didn’t happen often.

  Shit. It was her. Lavender. Man, she’d cleaned up well. He almost hadn’t recognized her. She looked him up and down. He squirmed under her astute gaze. Her brown eyes stripped his defenses bare and found him lacking.

  “It’s you.” She beat him to the punch and didn’t sound too happy about it, either.

  “Yeah, babe, it’s me. The answer to your prayers. Did you miss me?”

  “Members only. You’ll have to leave.” Her smug smile lasted only a second as he flashed his membership card in front of her face.

  “You’re not a veteran.”

  “My father was. I’m a member through him. Aren’t you a lucky woman?” He grinned, enjoying matching wits with her.

  “You’re an ass. Take the hat off.”

  “Not a problem.” He placed his Stetson on the counter. “How about you and me, and you can leave your hat on, baby.”

  Moving closer to him, she crooked a finger. He leaned forward to catch her hushed words, enjoying the husky sensuality of her voice. “Let me fill you in, cowboy. I’ve heard every line. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

  “Never challenge a competitive man. I don’t like to lose.”